


Gotcha

by blushamatic



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Love Confessions, Smooching, general naughtiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 22:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushamatic/pseuds/blushamatic
Summary: “Gettin’ horned up is half the fun of racing, gorgeous.”Three vignettes from Hurley and Sloane's romance.





	Gotcha

“I could fake my own murder.”

They’re perched on a cliff’s edge as dusk falls, soaking up the purple sky. They’re passing a glass jug between them and planning their escape from civilization.

“Who could we frame for it? I’m good at planting evidence.”

“I have the case files to dispute that, actually.”

“Rude. Who could we frame? Got any vengeful ex-lovers in town?”

Hurley takes a sip. “Maybe.”

Sloane’s jaw drops ever so slightly. “Y—you do?”

Hurley gives her a sly little sideways glance, but she can’t hold it. “I’m kidding!” Sloane glowers, which only makes her cackle more. “Ex-lovers, sure. Vengeful, no.”

Sloane takes a sip. “How many ex-lovers we talking?”

Hurley grins like an idiot. “You sound jealous, princess.”

“I’m not.” She’s blushing now.

“Only a few.” Hurley grabs the jug, takes a swig. “The only one you’d have to worry about is Zira.”

“Zira, eh? Awfully sexy name.”

“She was. She was a blacksmith.”

“Hmph.” Sloane is trying her best to sound jealous.

“Not as sexy as you, though.” Hurley nudges Sloane in the ribs.

Sloane snorts. “You can’t fool me, stud. I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Sloane isn’t looking at Hurley when Hurley says, “I don’t”—she’s looking at the moon—but she doesn’t have to be to know Hurley is telling the truth.

 

* * *

 

Hurley can barely breathe.

First. They hadn’t dreamed they’d come in first. They’d hoped, sure, but it was Hurley’s first race at the wheel. She’d psyched herself up to be satisfied with third.

She’s staring at her hands, still gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, trying to slow her thundering heartbeat with slow, even breaths. It’s not working.

Sloane leans over, breathless herself.

“You feelin’ dizzy from that adrenaline?” she asks and claps her on the shoulder.

“Y-Yeah!”

“Your heart feel like it’s trying to jump out of your chest?”

“Oh yeah.”

“You wet as hell?”

Hurley freezes. How did—how the hell could Sloane tell? “Wh—I didn’t say that!”

Sloane snorts. “You didn’t have to. Listen—” She lifts Hurley’s chin and leans in conspiratorially. “Gettin’ horned up is half the fun of racing, gorgeous.”

 

* * *

 

Of course Sloane likes to move fast. Nothing about her is built for patience.

Honestly, Hurley should have seen it coming, the night Sloane gripped Hurley’s face in both hands and locked onto her with those violet eyes and said, “I’m in love with you,” only a month into—whatever this was.

And when Hurley’s first, instinctive, thoughtless reply was a breathless, “You’re amazing,” she thought she’d ruined things for good. Really stepped in it. But Sloane grinned and seemed to . . . be pleased? Amused? Not disappointed, or heartbroken—at least not that Hurley could see. Then Sloane pecked her on the mouth and leapt up to grab another hunk of bitter chocolate from the bedside table.

(Hurley always kept little bits of candy in there for herself, tucking them out of sight to make them last longer. A habit of self-denial. Sloane found her stash within an hour of her first night in the apartment and finished it off before dawn. Now Hurley hides things there intending for them to be found. Rewarding her thievery, reveling in it.)

But it’s later, weeks later, and Sloane is twisted up in Hurley’s sheets, catching her breath, flushed, black hair spilling across the pillows, thighs and belly gleaming with sweat, blissed-out smile across her face. And yes, it’s partly because she’s naked in Hurley’s bed at two in the morning, but Hurley says it because now she knows she means it, and because this picture is like some kind of gift Sloane is giving her, right now, and Hurley has to give this girl something in return. So she gives the best thing she has, and she says, “I fucking love you.”

Sloane stares. Then she props herself up on still-trembling arms and leans forward within inches of Hurley’s nose. She holds up her fist and clenches it, as if seizing a firefly out of the air. She grins that dumb, toothy, bewitching grin and crows, “Gotcha.”

Then she falls back into the pillows, and Hurley falls with her.


End file.
